


Péché Mignon

by idonthaveyourappetite



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Bloodplay, For the most part, Hannigram - Freeform, I don't know if this should be mature or explicit, I mean, Knifeplay, M/M, Mild D/s, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Rough Sex, Some D/s elements, Will discovers his praise kink, Will takes what he wants from Hannibal, and s&m, as always, but it's actually sweet, but nothing too explicit, ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-12
Updated: 2016-10-12
Packaged: 2018-08-22 02:23:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8269096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idonthaveyourappetite/pseuds/idonthaveyourappetite
Summary: Hannibal’s face is inscrutable as he caresses Will’s neck and chest, first with his fingers—so fucking gently—and then with the scalpel.  He hums in pleasure as Will tips his head back, offers his throat to the blade. Whispers, an echo of what Hannibal told him one night when their positions had been reversed. Then he’d been consumed by rage. Now he is all need. “I’d give you my life, if you asked it of me.”(Another drabble. Hannibal indulges Will's masochism. Gratuitous knifeplay and sex and grossly affectionate cannibals ensue.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is not typically how I envision their dynamic BUT

“I want to atone.”

“For what, sweet boy?” the fingers ghost over his exposed skin.

“Everything.”

Hannibal waits with eyebrows coolly raised. His fingers never stop their exploration. Will can feel the expectation, thick and heavy between them. When he can no longer bear the silence he continues. “I feel reckless—destructive—"

He’s begging now. “Cut it out of me. Use the knife, please.”

Normally Hannibal would correct him. Scalpel. Not knife. But the desperation in Will’s voice goes straight to his groin, some hot dark snake coiling in his pelvis. 

“I  _need_  you, Hannibal.”

“Very well. I will give you what you want, my dear boy. But know this. You won’t be able to stop me until I’m finished. Until I consider you sufficiently atoned.” 

He knows it’s true, feels the weight of the words and they thrill him. Hannibal drums his fingers almost impatiently on Will’s stomach, and when they still for a moment, possessive, on the scar he left there Will sees a snarl flash across his face, something dark and bestial. A warning goes off somewhere in his head but that doesn’t stop him from whispering, “do it.” 

He makes to turn over—Hannibal’s only ever cut him twice before and both times on his back—but is stopped with a disapproving, “no. On your back. Hands at your sides. Eyes here.” Will finds himself complying too easily, his lips parted and his chest heaving already— _yes, please, please_. 

Hannibal’s face is inscrutable as he caresses Will’s neck and chest, first with his fingers—so fucking gently—and then with the scalpel.  He hums in pleasure as Will tips his head back, offers his throat to the blade. Whispers, an echo of what Hannibal told him one night when their positions had been reversed. Then he’d been consumed by rage. Now he is all need. “I’d give you my life, if you asked it of me.”

“Will.” It’s a warning. "I’m not asking.” His eyes roll back, his lashes fluttering. He groans _. I could come just from that_ , he thinks, and it brings a flush of shame to his cheeks. 

The cuts are clean, thin and cruel. The scalpel slices easily, too easily, through his epidermis, as though his skin is inviting the blade inside. 

Hannibal hums approvingly. “You’re beautiful like this.” He pushes the tip of the blade into the scar on Will’s stomach and Will tenses, his eyes find Hannibal’s and they’re full of fear when he whispers, “no…not there…”  _Not again. Please._ Hannibal’s eyes are frighteningly blank as he presses it in harder and Will feels the skin starting to give, drops of blood dotting the white slash on his stomach. It takes all of his resolve to stay quiet and still. Hannibal smirks at his effort, tracing the jagged smile with the flat of the blade. It’s cold and menacing on his skin and Will bites his lip to keep from pleading. Hannibal’s smile is dark and predatory but proud, so proud, and Will’s body thrums with desire.  _I trust you, Hannibal. See? I’m being good._ Will marvels for a moment at what he’s been reduced to, this terrible  _need_ \--

and then the blade is slipping again into his chest, not too deep but deep enough and with an almost comfortable intimacy, making room for itself like it’s an extension of Hannibal’s own body—and Will loves how Hannibal feels, like he’s carving out a place for himself inside.  _God, yes, Hannibal. Help me._ It’s cleansing, the pain. He feels like he’s stepping out into the rain and it is water not blood coursing over his skin.

Hazy from endorphins and pain, he finds himself drifting. He’s brought back when Hannibal digs his nails into one of the cuts, opening the smooth laceration into something red and jagged. “I require you to be present, Will. You asked for this. You can at least give me your full attention.” He whines an apology, seeking  _something_ in Hannibal’s dark eyes. He’s terribly hard and it  _hurts,_ God, it hurts, and he doesn’t want this anymore. He just wants Hannibal to fuck him. Wants sweat and teeth and lips against lips, wants to be loved and possessed and so fucking full—and Hannibal opens another cut with his nails and he  _sobs_. He brings his hands to Hannibal’s chest, anchoring himself, trying to focus, and he half-expects the slap that follows, sharp and stinging. 

“Hannibal…” His nails score Hannibal’s chest and he’s writhing and panting in desperation. "I want  _you._ I  _need_  you.” Hannibal brings a bloody finger to Will's mouth and presses it against his bottom lip in an implicit command. “Shh.” He parts his lips and sucks, frantically, hollowing his cheeks and tasting the iron of his own blood on his tongue. 

“You’re in no position to make demands, Will.” But he can feel the arousal in Hannibal’s voice, knows that Hannibal wants him just as desperately. He nods and sucks another finger into his mouth and though it takes considerable effort, he forces his hands back to his sides. After a few moments of silence save for the slight suckling sounds, Hannibal pulls his hand free and scratches over the cuts on his chest once again before lowering his head and digging his tongue into one of the wounds. Will whimpers, stifling the urge to grab Hannibal by the hair and drag him up for a kiss or to kick and struggle and push him away. Hannibal’s tongue is caressing the wound on his chest and it’s inside him, it’s too much and too intimate it and  _hurts—_  


Hannibal  _tastes_  his desperation; he hums in satisfaction and draws back, licking his lips. Finally, finally giving Will the touch he craves, Hannibal cups his face in his hands. “Shh, shh. That’s all. You're all right. We’re done now.”  _Tell me I was good, tell me I did well—_ he hates himself for it, hates that he needs Hannibal so much even now. Hannibal reads it in his face and presses a chaste, bloody kiss to the corner of his mouth, whispering, “you are truly remarkable, my love.” Will moans in gratitude and parts his legs, begging wordlessly to be touched. Anywhere. However Hannibal wants to touch him. “Thank you,” he whispers, desperate. “Thank you for knowing.” Hannibal smiles, his dark eyes alight with desire and adoration and  _pride,_ and something inside Will’s heart soars. “I know you inside and out. Always, Will.” They’re both bleeding—the marks on Hannibal’s chest mirror the deeper ones on his own. They are conjoined. Still. Now and always. Hannibal litters Will’s chest and stomach with soft, soothing kisses before taking him into his mouth all at once, and Will’s eyes roll back and this time it’s ecstasy when he drifts away. And this time Hannibal lets him, lets him drown in it for a long while before pulling away and lapping at the lattice of his chest. 

Will sobs at the loss—he was close, so fucking close—and Hannibal smiles at him. “What do you want, darling boy?” Will groans. “You—all of you—anything—“ but it isn’t enough. Hannibal merely raises an eyebrow, calm as ever save the rather noticeable erection visible through his underwear. 

"want to come, Hannibal, please—" Hannibal’s lips part and Will continues, “want you inside me—want to come only from that—" and Hannibal laughs softly. “Demanding,” he leans down and kisses him, biting his lips until they’re swollen and red. “Greedy,” he murmurs between kisses, and Will moans his assent, kissing back until neither of them can breathe. “Going to oblige me?” He gasps against Hannibal’s lips, bucking his hips up for friction. “Was there ever a question of that?” Hannibal’s voice is shaking slightly and Will’s chest is flooded with the warmth of satisfaction. 

Hannibal pulls away, kissing his closed eyelids one after the other and Will is left with the coldness of the blood drying on his chest. Hannibal is gone for what feels like years. When he returns with a small bottle of lube in his hand, Will is almost surprised. He figured Hannibal would fuck him dry and raw and make him beg even for that, make him  _grateful_ for that, because he would be--

and Hannibal's finger moves in slow, circular movements around his entrance, teasing him--

and God, he is nothing but need at this point--

“Shh—relax, my sweet boy. Let me in.” Hannibal is cupping his face with one hand, the touch achingly tender, but the words are no less commanding for it. Will obliges, or tries to, as Hannibal pushes all the way inside him and stays there, giving him a moment to adjust. It hurts, it always hurts, but it’s exactly what he wanted. Hannibal’s eyes never leave his as he starts moving, and there is nothing gentle about it—in fact, it’s brutal enough to catch Will off guard and the first thrust leaves him struggling beneath Hannibal, his hands balling in the sheets as he tries to stay quiet. Hannibal’s voice is slightly strained when he whispers, “that’s it, Will, that’s very good,” and it’s what he needed to hear, it’s all he needs to grit his teeth and take it because he’s good and Hannibal is pleased with him and in his chest the words feel so wonderful—and Hannibal lifts his legs with his free hand, changing the angle and _fuck_ ,  _there, Hannibal, yes—more—_  


And he doesn’t know if he’s saying it or thinking it, doesn’t know if the litany of curses and pleas falling from his lips are coherent or even audible, but it doesn’t matter. Hannibal is all he needs and he’s so full, so fucking full of him—

Hannibal kisses him and there is still blood on his lips and it’s messy and metallic between them and God it hurts but he’s arching into it now, rolling his hips up to meet Hannibal’s every movement, using his legs to pull him deeper, matching his intensity—

Hannibal’s voice is thick with arousal now, and he too is losing control because his accent is heavy and his thrusts become erratic and he moans against Will’s neck, “so perfect—so good for me—my good boy—“ and that’s all it takes. He comes suddenly between them and it mixes with the blood and sweat covering their bodies. He is sobbing Hannibal’s name and in the moment of lucidity before he collapses back on the bed, boneless, he panics— _I didn’t ask, I didn’t ask him_ —but Hannibal’s only response is a low moan and then he’s being filled, hot and possessive and so fucking  _much_ , and Hannibal groans his name again and again like a mantra and all Will can do is cling to him, overstimulated and barely conscious, until his orgasm subsides and they lie there like that, panting and bleeding and unable to form words.

 A while later, when they’ve somewhat regained their faculties, Hannibal slips out of him and rolls onto his back, taking Will with him so his head is resting on Hannibal’s chest. “We should get cleaned up.” Limp and boneless, Will mumbles a protest into the warmth of Hannibal’s chest. Hannibal chuckles and kisses the top of his head fondly,  _tenderly_ , and Will beams up at him. “Indulge me in this, too. Cleanup can wait.” Hannibal pets his hair, his movements slow and languid. “Do you feel better, then?”

_What do you think, Doctor? Use your deductive inference._ He’s too blissful to muster a retort, too blissful to muster anything but a murmured, “God, yes.” And then after a hesitation, “thank you.” He’s almost finished bleeding, the shallow cuts on his chest stinging in an acid way that’s grounding, almost reassuring in the way it slices through his post-orgasmic haze. Hannibal tips his head up and kisses him and murmurs against his lips between kisses, “I love you. I love you. I love you,” and Will smiles.  _I love you, Hannibal. More than anything._   “I sense an increasing need for penitence in my future."


End file.
